


The Winter of Our Discontent

by blitzenprancer



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Developing Relationship, Ephebophilia, F/F, F/M, Humanstuck, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-03 02:18:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1064549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blitzenprancer/pseuds/blitzenprancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You noticed her on the first day. It was hard not to. Her writing was flawless. Impeccable. It casts you into a different realm, one filled with fantasy and magic beyond the reaches of this pathetic earth. </p><p>You noticed him on the first day. It was hard not to. He was the teacher, after all. Even if every well-meaning smile sent a warm flutter through your chest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rose Lalonde

**Author's Note:**

> More tags and warnings will be added as the story progresses. I'm planning for at least five chapters.

DOC SCRATCH 

You notice her on the first day. 

It's hard not to. Her writing is flawless. Impeccable. It casts you into a different realm, one filled with fantasy and magic beyond the reaches of this pathetic earth. 

It's the first day of school at the Albany Academy for Girls, and you had decided to start your College Prep Short Fiction class with something informative and easy. Poetry. 

"Class," you began, "Have any of you any experience with iambic pentameter?" A few hands raised, some more slowly than others. "Good, good. Now, for those of you who do not know or may have forgotten, iambic pentameter is a style of verse, commonly used in English poetry. William Shakespeare often used this style in his own writing. The word 'iambic' refers to the type of syllables which make up the verse, in this case, an unstressed syllable followed by a stressed syllable. The 'penta' in 'pentameter' refers to the number five, meaning that lines in iambic pentameter each have five couples of these syllables." 

You give the class a couple examples from renowned authors. From John Keats, "To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells." From Shakespeare, "Now is the winter of our discontent." You repeat these lines a couple times, making sure to clearly stress every second syllable. You then have the class repeat after you. 

To SWELL the GOURD, and PLUMP the HA-zel SHELLS. 

Now IS the WIN-ter OF our DIS-con-TENT.

The first few weeks of class were meant to be spent doing early practice for next year's SAT's and working on college level essays. However, you weren't daft. You knew that the students would be less than thrilled to put their noses to the tedious grindstone right from the start. They would become disillusioned with the class immediately. No, you decided to start out with something simple, but something which would still tell you about the academic levels and personalities of your many students. 

You announce to the class that you will hand out a packet further explaining and giving examples of iambic pentameter, and then you would like them to write a brief, eight-line verse in iambic pentameter themselves. There were no requirements as to what the poem should contain. As long as it was written in proper format, the poem could be submitted to his desk as soon as it was finished. It would then be traded out for another packet containing a selection of poems by Edgar Allen Poe. 

You see a few of your students faces fall at the idea of having to do work so soon. However, you notice out of the corner of your eyes that one girl lifts her chin at the prospect. She has a light honey pixie cut, and decorates her eyes and lips with charcoal. It might've looked out of place on anyone else, contrasting with the white and lavender on her form-fitting t-shirt, but she somehow made it look natural. You couldn't help but to turn your lips up a bit at the corners. It always made your day a little brighter to see these young girls interested in your lessons.

You tell the class to go ahead and start. They all, one by one, shuffle through their respective items to pull out notebooks, loose leaf paper, pens of a variety of colors, and mechanical and wooden pencils. You pull open the laptop on your desk, check to see if everyone is in their correct seats. You posted a seating chart on the board, so you could count the students quietly instead of having to speak over their voices to see if everyone was present. You also avoided butchering anyone's names in this fashion.

You go through the copy of the seating chart on your laptop, eyes roaming over every girl in the class. Everyone appears to be present. Once that's done, you open a browser and flick through your email. There's one addressed to all the staff, full of general reminders to hand out the syllabi and whatnot. You have a stack of them on the desk next to you. You'll ask the students to take a copy on their way out of class. Speaking of students. You get out of your chair to make rounds around the classroom, silently observing the girls' work. Most of them are working studiously. You give a couple who are chatting in whispers a stern glance. They immediately quiet and return to their work. A lot of the students give you nervous glances or stiffen up when you pass them by. The woes of having authority. One of the only girls who doesn't skitter at your approach is the one you observed earlier. Her name was...What was it? That's right. Now it clicked. You had her older sister about two years back, a bright young thing yet prone to procrastination. The last name was Lalonde. The first? You couldn't remember. You would have to review the seating chart in order to learn all the names to go with the new faces. 

The rounds come to an end and you sit back down at your desk. It had been about ten minutes since the beginning of the writing session and, judging by both the time and the observed progress made, it would take at least another ten minutes for anyone to finish. You figure this is as good a time as any to pull out some literature. Vladimir Nabokov. Just as you really become invested in your reading, the first paper lands on your desk. You figure you have the entire day to grade them. You can choose to slack off a little with a book right now. The rest of the assignments filter in over the following ten minutes, mostly tossed carelessly into a pile instead of the stack you would prefer. You wonder if one of the girls noticed your annoyance, as she picks up the pile and shuffles it into place. You don't look up to see who it is. Once all of the assignments are in place in front of you, you inform the class that you would like them to be familiar with the packet of poetry in two days. They have the last fifteen minutes to socialize and/or review their packets while you go through the papers. Glancing through them, most don't appear to be in correct format. You will grade them leniently, regardless. It is the first day, they are but schoolgirls, and you are a proper gentleman. 

One page catches your sight among the others. Specifically, it is the name penned neatly in lavender in the top right corner which interests you. Rose Lalonde. Your eyes move down the page and you perk your eyebrow at the.. the exquisite writing shown below.

For maybe the third time in your career as a tenth grade English teacher, your emotions are stirred by a student's writing. 

It's fantastic. 

She writes of a world of witchcraft and wizardry, one filled with romance and eloquent prose. The words are mature and thoughtful, and you wouldn't have thought that this was something written by a young teenager in fifteen minutes. You read the script twice over, noticing that every mark was made very deliberately. There are no stutters nor crossing-outs to be found. She must have gone thoroughly through every word in her head before placing it onto the paper. Either that, or she was just a natural. You happen a glance up at Rose. She sits in her desk, one arm draped across the table, and the other propped up to support her delicate chin. Her bare legs demurely crossed at the ankle. Now, you always had a soft spot for Roxy. She was an absolute delight to have in class; she was excited and peppy without being obnoxious, and helped motivate the other girls multiple times. You recall that she had a friend that she broke the seating chart for several times to sit next to. After some time, you decided to let it go. You knew their names by that point anyway. You're going to try not to show the same favoritism toward her sister. But it might be challenging.

Rose turns her head slightly and she catches your eye. She seems to deliberate for a moment, closing her slightly-opened mouth. She then turns it up a bit at the corners. She's smiling at you coyly, a bit friendly for the first day. You realize that her older sister may have told her about you. Only good things, you can hope. You nod your head at the girl- at Rose- and give her a slight grin back. She turns back to the window she was gazing pensively out of. You turn back to the paper. Uncap your green marker. You write with clear penmanship: 

100% - I'm looking forward to more.


	2. Mr. Scratch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back...

ROSE LALONDE

You notice him on the first day. It's hard not to. He is the teacher, after all. Even if every well-meaning smile sends a warm flutter through your chest.

College Prep Short Fiction is your third period class, the one right before lunch. Your older sister Roxy had told you about the teacher. She had told you a lot about him. Especially how "absoluetly bagnable" he is. Now that you see him in person, you guess you could see where she got that from. He was sort of like that Touch of Grey commercial. The one that advertises being old enough to know what you're doing, but still young enough to do it. Except his hair isn't just a touch of grey; it's all a brilliant silver. Almost white, even. But you know it can't be from old age, as the lack of wrinkles on his face suggest he can't be more than forty. Maybe he's right around that age. Isn't that a bit old to be dying your hair for attention? 

He explains the concept of iambic pentameter to the class. Of course you already know of this from your own studies. Iambic pentameter prose was actually one of your favorites to read, even if you didn't get around to writing it often. You had hoped that this would be the first assignment, something simple yet amusing, and so you involuntarily lift your chin when you get exactly what you want. Scratch takes notice. His lips turn up at the corners. You're not sure why, but you find the gesture very charming. You consider smiling back, but he turns away before you get the chance. He tells the class to go ahead and start. You pull out a lavender notebook and the pen to match. 

A girl across the room is the first to finish. She's not much to look at, much like many of the girls at this school. Not that you were complaining. You didn't need a bunch of lovely women distracting you from your schoolwork. Just as you complete your poem, the girl behind you stands up. She has light tan skin, and meticulously and lushly styled black hair. She wears a high waisted pencil skirt, like a woman in business. As you get up and walk behind her to turn your paper in, you can't help but to notice the refined sway of her wide hips. Just after you cited your lack of a need for lovely ladies. She seems to be just as neat with everything else as with her appearance, shown by her picking up and straightening the haphazardly thrown together pile of schoolwork. When she turns around, you almost expect her to ignore you. Surely someone with such apparently high class wouldn't think twice about blowing someone like you off.

She instead makes direct eye contact with you, and you are instantly struck by her beauty. It's not a generic or cliche type of beauty. Her nose is not delicately curved, but instead large and straight. Her lips are thin, but accentuated with dark lipstick. Quite like yours in fact. Deep green orbs framed by thin, long lashes stare directly at you for a couple more seconds. However, they then widen as a blush spreads across those fair cheekbones. She ducks her head and quickly walks around you and back to her seat. You don't know what was up with that. It was really cute though.

After placing your paper in the stack next to Scratch, you return silently to your desk and turn your eyes out the window. It is a pretty day, but not the kind that you enjoy. The sunlight was nice, sure, but you figure the sky could use a few more clouds. Maybe even a few drops of rain. You've always cherished those precious times when rain came down through the sunlight, light reflecting off of every droplet. Liquid sunshine. It didn't happen very often, but when it did you were struck with the beauty of it.

You spend the next several minutes like that, appreciating as much of nature as a school setting might allow. Scratch tells you all that you may use the rest of your time as you please. You figure that you'll have plenty of time at home to go over the poetry he has given you, so you don't need to pull that out right now. After pondering for a second, you swivel around in your desk. It takes a second, but the girl behind you finally realizes that you are attempting to interact with her. You smile, friendly, and offer a small wave. 

"Hello," she says softly. Her voice takes on a slight accent, something... European? You've never been very good at pegging those sorts of things. Now, ask you to psychoanalyze the girl and you'd have that in the bag. But recognizing one's place of origin? That could use a little work, you think.

"Hello," you respond. "I'm Rose..." 

You debate with yourself for a moment before adding: 

"You're very beautiful." 

The girl blushes brilliantly, and you think that the extra shade of red compliments her almond skin quite nicely. Were you being too forward? Maybe. You decide to continue and see where it gets you. You think you'd really like to stop referring to her as "the girl." In perfect timing, she decides to respond.

"Thank you... very much. My name is Kanaya Maryam. It is nice to meet you." 

She is politely formal. You take a moment to wonder whether English is her first language or not. You consider asking, but you don't want to sound presumptuous. You figure you'll just stick to introductions. 

"It's nice to meet you too. I hope this'll be a good semester for the two of us." 

You smile once again, before turning back to face the front. Kanaya. What a gorgeous name. You decide you'll tell her so the next time that the two of you happen to converse. Now, you had always been fine with sitting alone in a classroom. Having people to fill the silences between your thoughts was never something that you desired much. However, you wouldn't mind hearing more of her voice. 

You notice out of the corner of your eye that Scratch has his head turned toward you. You tilt your own to match his gaze. Scratch is different from the rest of the teachers. He's special, and you really wouldn't mind getting on his good side. Keeping that in mind, you raise the corners of your lips. He doesn't respond immediately, and it flickers through your head that, once again, you may be being too forward. However, that thought vanishes when you receive a nod and a grin of your own. And, goodness, you're glad he turned back to his work. Otherwise, you have this irrational fear that he could've noticed your heart skip a beat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn't get Rose's poem after all. Looks like you'll have to use your imagination. Huahauha.
> 
> I wanted to add more to this part, but at the same time I kind of wanted to use the end of the chapter as an excuse for a small time lapse. Also, I'm going to try not to have characters explain the same events too often. So, we'll be able to get the real story rolling around next chapter. Expect that, say, sometime in the next week? Also, warning: I'm going to be switching POV like crazy. You'll get a taste of everyone. (all three ones.)


End file.
